Breaking Stan
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Stan goes through the portal instead of Ford. Unfortunately, Bill finds him-and he's not playing around in his desire to get into our world. Torture is ahead-you have been warned.
1. Not According to Plan

**This is a rewrite of Keleficent's "Trust Me" (written with her permission, don't worry). I was stuck for a better title, so for now I'm just going with this one.**

**I'm not gonna lie to you guys (at least, not right now). This is gonna get dark. Not as dark as some people like, but there is some physical and psychological torture ahead, followed by severe PTSD. But there will be good times after that, scout's honor. Even though I was never actually a scout.**

**So bon appetit, I guess.**

* * *

It was the last straw for Stan.

He'd had to endure a lot in the last ten years-he'd been rejected by his family, had to live pretty much in his car, been chased out of half the states in the whole frickin' country, gone in and out of prison, nearly been murdered so many times he'd lost count, and just now he'd had his hopes crushed for the millionth time, and on top of _all_ that, his brother had the gall to call him worthless, blame him for all of his problems and then _burn _him!

Had he taken a moment to calm down, or just not been as stressed out to begin with, he might have acknowledged that the burning at least was an accident, and that there was some truth to Ford's accusations.

The pain he was currently feeling, though, in both the emotional and physical sense, threw any chance of him calming down right now straight out the window. Enraged beyond belief, he stormed towards Ford, clutching at his throbbing shoulder.

"You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family?" he snarled. "Well then you can _have_ them!"

And he shoved his brother hard in the chest, with every intention of turning around afterwards and walking out of his life forever-and definitely not taking that stupid journal with him.

* * *

Instead, unexpectedly, Ford started floating.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, what's going on? Hey, hey, Stanford-" He reached out, wondering what was going on, if it had to do with the portal somehow-

"Stanley! Stanley, help me!" Ford was struggling, clawing frantically at the air as he was pulled towards the big glowing circle in the middle of the machine.

Immediately all Stan's anger and hurt was forgotten; his brother was afraid, and calling for him, and he needed to do something _now_.

A dumb idea flickered into his thoughts; before he could worry about boring stuff like the consequences of following it, he was leaping across the black and yellow line after his twin, allowing himself to defy gravity along with him, grabbing Ford by his outstretched arms and shoving him down towards safety.

And then the consequences reared their ugly head: Newton's Third Law of Motion, had Stan cared about how it worked, meant that the action of pushing Ford downward had the equal and opposite reaction of propelling himself further upward-right...towards...the waiting portal.

"NO! STANLEY!"

* * *

One blinding white light later, gravity returned to the basement, and the body of a man hit the floor.

The wrong man.

A man who cracked the back of his head against the floor upon impact, and didn't even have time to worry about the possibility of getting a concussion or of being possessed again before colored lights exploded in front of his eyes, and in seconds darkness was all he knew.

* * *

**...Yeah, that ended well.**


	2. Morton's Fork

**Just to warn you...this is where the dark stuff starts.**

**Also, this is my first time writing Bill, so be nice, yeah?**

* * *

Ford's eyes flickered open to find himself in a horribly familiar place, an endless galaxy filled with complicated books and chess sets hovering around him. It appeared that unconsciousness was close enough to being asleep to send him to the mindscape...which meant, he realized with horror, that he was probably about to see-

"_**Hiya, kid! Been a long time since you came to **_**mi casa**_**, I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you!"**_

Ford was on his feet in seconds, glaring with abject hatred at the one-eyed form hovering in front of him and twirling a cane.

"_**Aw, c'mon, don't be like that!"**_ Bill Cipher wheedled, managing to give the impression of a smug smile without even having a mouth. "_**I got you a present!"**_

Ford's knee-jerk reaction was to vindictively declare that there was nothing Bill could offer him that he could possibly want, save perhaps going away and never returning to this world again-except that something about his words created a little chill in his heart.

"_**It came through when you finally opened the portal for me,"**_ Bill purred, as he waved his free hand; a large black doorway appeared in front of them. Recollection returned to Ford at once, and the chill circulated through his entire body. Surely Bill didn't mean-

"_**Unfortunately, you didn't open it long enough for me and my buddies to come through, like I **_**WANTED**_**-"**_ his entire body turned an eerie, glowing red for a second, before settling down back into its normal yellow- "_**but hey, I guess I can enjoy having a new toy for a while." **_He beckoned for Ford to follow him through the doorway. Against his will, he did so, into what looked like nothing so much as a stereotypical medieval dungeon.

It was dark, save for a few torches stuck in the walls; they emanated an eerie, blue, flickering light that reminded Ford uncomfortably of when he'd made that foolish deal with Bill, and it had encircled their joined hands. Everything was made of stone, except for the skeletons hanging in shackles from the walls. There were quite a lot of them, some dangling by their arms, some lying in crumpled piles on the floor, many in slightly varied levels of decomposition. And at the far end of the room, still alive and struggling in his chains, was-

"Stanley!"

* * *

The name came out in a horrified gasp, before Ford rushed to him, not even registering the fact that his feet weren't touching the floor.

Stan didn't seem to realize he was there; he was staring up at the chains keeping his arms wrenched over his head with an intense frown, and then scratching at the spaces between the stones above him with his fingers, before finally lowering his hands (as much as he could) with a frustrated sigh.

"Knew I should've kept that paperclip in my sleeve," he muttered aloud.

"...Stanley?" Ford tried to reach out to him-and his hand went right through his shoulder.

"_**Sorry, Sixer-"**_ grr, that was _Stan's_ nickname for him, he should never have given Bill the right to use it- "_**but you're not actually here. You're still in the mindscape, I'm just showing you what's going on at home sweet home. You're pretty much a ghost here-and not the fun kind either."**_ Speak of the devil, he was leaning his elbow on one of the skeletons in the far corner of the dungeon, tapping his fingers against its sockets as he spoke. "_**So, here's my offer: if you let me and my buddies come out to play, I'll keep this joker here until he dies or whatever you meat sacks do, and he'll be out of your hair forever. Whaddya say?"**_

Ford nearly got whiplash spinning around to stare at him in aghast rage. "_What_?!"

And then something unusual happened: Bill looked...perplexed, for want of a better word.

He tilted his body the same way anyone else would tilt their head, and his eye frowned. "_**What're you squawking about? You're the one who told me a billion times you never wanted to see him again-now I'm giving you the chance to make that a certainty."**_

"No! I never-I didn't-" Yes, Ford realized with shame curdling his stomach, he had said something like that on multiple occasions to Bill-but he hadn't meant it like that! He'd just been angry, and spouting a lot of hurtful nonsense because that was the kind of dumb thing he did to soothe his own bruised feelings towards his brother, telling himself he was fine without him and didn't miss him or want him back in his life. And even if he had meant it, he would certainly never have wanted to trap Stanley in a hellhole like this! Did Bill really think-but then again, maybe he did.

Then, terrifyingly, Bill's eye narrowed in thought. "_**Wait, wait, wait. Do you actually **_**care** _**about him?"**_

"N-n-" He started to deny it, realizing what that meant-but no, it felt like a new betrayal to say that. And then he was too late to argue either way. The single eye had developed a new, triumphant light.

"_**Interesting...okay, I can work with that. New deal: go get your other two journals and open the portal, and I'll give him **_**back **_**to you. I'll even leave him in one piece."**_

Ford's heart dropped into his stomach. "I-you'll destroy everything-"

The triangle sighed and rubbed his forehead in a tired, exasperated way. "_**Maybe I need to show you a little preview of what life's gonna be like for your brother if you don't. You know, to help you make up your mind."**_

Suddenly a little table on wheels appeared in front of him, covered in a lovely assortment of knives and other painful-looking metal devices.

"No! Please! Leave him alone-it's me you want!" Ford protested as he stepped in front of his brother protectively, realizing it was futile even as he did so.

Bill scoffed, and levitated a few inches. "_**Oh, get **_**over** _**yourself, I.Q. I don't want either of you-I want your world. I'm just taking the steps to get it."**_ He waved his hand again; the skeleton he'd been leaning on fell free of its chains, and landed lightly on its feet. And then, spontaneously, it grew rapid layers of muscles, skin, hair and clothes-until standing there was a near-perfect duplicate of Ford, even down to the rumpled clothes and unshaven chin. The only difference was the way it was slumping forward lifelessly, like a marionette that wasn't in use.

"_**In your world, I need to use suckers like you as meat puppets. Here, however, I can make my own."**_ Bill rubbed his hands gleefully, and then disappeared into the body. A few seconds later its head lifted, opening its yellow, slit-pupiled eyes, and grinned a far-too-wide, unnatural smile. Flexing his new six-fingered hands, Bill grabbed onto the side of the table and began pushing it forward.

"Leave my brother alone!" Ford lunged at the meat puppet-fruitlessly, of course, since he phased right through it and somersaulted a few times through the air before he could bring himself to a stop. Bill, unperturbed, just kept walking forward, into the torchlight right in front of Stan.

* * *

"Ford?"

He sounded bewildered-but there was also a heartbreaking note of hope in his voice, at the idea that his brother would come to rescue him.

Ford wanted to call out, let him know that this thing wasn't really him. But it wouldn't have done any good; even if Stan had been able to hear him, he would have still been helpless to escape.

"What's going on? Where are we? I thought I left you in your base-"

Stan's voice trailed off, and he tilted his head, staring at Bill in confusion. Ford hoped that he could see something off, some clue that this wasn't his brother.

_Look at his eyes,_ he willed silently. _Look at his pupils. That's not me, Stanley._

Bill turned the table until Stan had a good view of the full spread, and then let his hand dance over it slowly until he selected a small but sharp-looking scalpel. Picking it up, he twirled it through his fingers and stepped forward until he was standing right in front of his prisoner.

"...Nice knife. Ya thinkin' maybe you can pick the locks or something? I know how ta do that, I can-"

Bill shut him up by laying the blade against Stan's cheek, gently running it down the side of his face to his jaw, and then pressing it to his throat. The touch wasn't hard enough to break the skin, but that wasn't the least bit reassuring for either of the Pineses.

Ford was even more disturbed to see that Stan wasn't trying to struggle or move away; then he realized that he must be too bewildered by what was going on, was still trying to process the idea that his own brother was threatening him with a knife.

"Ford-quit playing around, wouldya?" he asked weakly.

Bill laughed, and finally spoke. "Oh, I'm done playing around, Stanley." Ford's eyes widened in horror; here in the Nightmare Realm (where he suspected they were), he even managed to _sound_ like Ford. "I was done playing around years ago, and you've ruined things for me long enough." The hand holding the knife drew back, switching the hold until it was pointing right at Stan, blade first.

"_NO!_"

Ford didn't think twice; he jumped forward, throwing himself in the path of the knife.

Unfortunately, he was still as incorporeal as before, so it passed right through him, plunging into his brother's shoulder.

A high, shrill scream, similar to the one he'd made when he'd smashed into the console, split the air.

"Oh g_d oh g_d oh g_d I'm sorry Stanley I'm so sorry!" Ford stared in horror at the fresh blood starting to gush from the wound, spilling down his jacket in an angry red wave.

Stan, however, only had eyes for the thing wearing his brother's body. His jaw flapped a few times, before he managed to croak pitifully, "...Why?"

Bill smirked and wiped the knife on his sleeve. "You really are kind of slow on the uptake, aren't you? You can relax, though, that won't kill you. I'll make sure of it." He grabbed Stan's chin with his other hand, forcing him to look at him through eyes that were starting to grow a little hazy from pain and shock. "I've waited a long, long time to pay you back for all the opportunities I've lost because of your interference. I want to enjoy this."

"Please...don't do this, Stanford. I'm your brother." Stan seemed to know how hollow a plea it was even as he said it.

"Yes, and I've learned that having a brother like you is nothing but-" the hand switched to around his windpipe, and _squeezed_\- "suffocating."

"Stop!" Ford yelled, grabbing futilely at the other him's arm, "Bill, please, stop!"

But Bill, if he heard him, wasn't listening. He continued to squeeze, until Stan stopped struggling and went limp. Then he released his chokehold and pressed the backs of two fingers against his pulse. After a few seconds he gave a satisfied nod, and stepped back.

"Don't worry, I.Q," he said aloud, still using Ford's voice. "He's still alive. He just needs to take a little nap."

Ford's spirit or astral projection or whatever it was hovered frantically by his twin, wanting to discern this for himself-no way would he trust Bill to tell him the truth. But after a few seconds, he managed to make out the slight wheezing of his breath. He turned back to Bill, eyes pleading.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't...if you have to do this to someone, do it to me. Not him. Just put him back."

Bill did a long, drawn-out sigh, resting his hands on his hips. "You're really not getting the point here, are you, Fordsy? I already told you my terms. I mean, as fun as it is hearing you beg, there's only two things that're gonna make me stop: you opening the portal for real this time, so we can start the party-or his body deciding it's had enough fun and giving out." The implication was clear.

"Please…" Ford hated how pathetic he sounded, but his usual desire for personal dignity was kind of unavailable at the moment.

"Every second you waste deciding is another second your brother is being slowly tortured to death. So you'd better make it...snappy!" And, because of course he was a showman who couldn't resist a tasteless pun even in a situation like this, Bill snapped his fingers.

* * *

Ford's eyes flew open again-he was lying on the floor of the basement, near the dark portal. For a futile moment, he hoped that everything he'd seen had just been a horrible dream brought on by the stress of everything he was going through right now, and he wasn't being forced into making a choice between the fate of the world and his brother's life.

But as he sat up, rubbing the back of his throbbing head, he saw a lighter lying on the floor.

Stan's lighter.

Possibly the same lighter that he'd had since he was a teenager, and definitely the one he'd threatened to burn Ford's journal with.

With trembling fingers, he reached out and picked it up.

He wished he'd allowed Stan to just burn the journal and put an end to all this. He wished he'd burned down the portal. He wished he'd burned down the entire lab.

With Ford still inside it.

* * *

**I have some notes...**

**First off, I don't know if Bill actually realizes that Ford still cares about Stan or not. With him, it seems like it could go either way.**

**Second, let's say just for argument's sake that Bill made sure Ford didn't get any serious cranial damage when he hit his head on the floor; after all, his favorite meat puppet's no good to him dead before he gets what he wants from him. Mwa-ha-ha-ha.**


	3. Making Plans

**...And here's where things get even darker.**

* * *

For far too long-probably just a few minutes, but any amount of time was too long right now-Ford just sat on the basement floor, staring at the lighter in his hand, paralyzed with horror and guilt.

His brother was being tortured to death, and it was all his fault.

Of course, it could be argued otherwise-it was Bill who was making the decision to do the actual torturing, he had never wanted this to happen, etc. But even if he'd bothered to think about all that, it wouldn't have provided an iota of comfort.

Instead, he began racking his brain for some kind of solution.

Letting Bill into their dimension was out of the question. So many people would suffer at his hands, and eventually he would get bored and-no.

But the other possibility, of leaving Stanley _there_ to be-

Just the thought of it made Ford want to throw up all over the floor.

So, since neither of the choices he'd been given was a desirable option, he simply had to somehow get his brother back without letting Bill into their world.

Real easy, ha ha.

And despite the horror still trying to smother his ability for coherent reasoning, a small spurt of inspiration for how to at least start preparing for this came to him.

Ford finally got to his feet, staggering on unsteady legs to the exit from the basement, thoughts racing a mile a minute now that they had a starting point. He probably had to look for his coat, had to find-

Some higher being must have been looking on him favorably, if they existed (he wasn't completely averse to the idea, since if something like Bill existed was it so impossible to think there might be others, but he didn't actively consider it that often), because there in the kitchen, stacked on top of each other and rummaging through one of his cupboards, were six of the little men he'd been wanting to find.

"Shmebulock!"

The old gnome at the bottom saw him first, and yelled out what was probably a warning to the others. They immediately began to disassemble their makeshift ladder, and ran for the window they'd evidently forced open and from which snow was blowing onto the counter.

Ford, however, was faster than them this time-desperation is a surprisingly good motivator under the right circumstances. Slamming the window shut, he spun around to face the gnomes, ordering, "STOP!"

The gnomes skidded to a halt, smashing into each other and landing in a heap on the floor. One of the younger ones extricated himself and said in a high voice, "Look, big guy, we don't want any trouble! We were just looking for something to eat, but you haven't got anything good anyway, so just let us go and-"

"I have an offer for you."

That shut them up.

Ford went on, eyes wide and a tiny bit feverish. "I need some unicorn hair. Lots of it. I don't care how you get it, as long as there's no killing involved, but if you can bring me some, I'll give you your weight in mushrooms."

It wasn't actually an empty promise; once he'd found out about the gnome people's odd interest in them, he'd gathered a few large jars of mushrooms back in fall when they were still around and squirreled them away in case he ever needed to use them as a bribe or for currency. Of course, he'd never predicted circumstances like these.

At the mention of mushrooms, all their beady eyes glittered greedily. The young one with the brown beard, who looked like he had to be their leader, moseyed closer to him with a thoughtful hand to his chin.

"Unicorn hair, huh? That's not gonna come cheap, you know that, right?"

"I'll give you _my_ weight in mushrooms!" It was probably a bad idea to sound this frantic, but the words came spilling out regardless. "Just bring it to me as soon as possible, and you'll be well compensated!"

"...Hold that thought, mister." The leader led the other gnomes into a quick huddle, muttering amongst themselves; Ford could pick out the occasional word, particularly "Shmebulock!" Finally, though, they turned back to him.

"Deal." And the leader held out his hand.

Ford had to physically resist the urge to either shrink away or shine a flashlight right into his eyes; he squinted down at them, but they were normal, right down to the pupils. Trying to conceal his inner nausea anyway, he shook with two of his fingers.

The gnomes whooped, and when he ushered them out the door they rushed off into the forest.

As soon as they were out of sight Ford scrambled back to his lab; there wasn't a moment to lose.

* * *

This all had to be some kind of horrible nightmare.

Of all Stan's options for explaining what was happening to him, that was probably the most palatable, even though that also meant it was the least likely.

Then there was the possibility that Ford had gone mad, living alone up here in a cabin in the woods, and developed some kind of a split personality or whatever. Like that guy in the Stephen King book.

Or there was the third option.

He really didn't want to consider that one.

Thankfully (sort of), he wasn't being given much time to consider it one way or another. Ford was back from wherever he'd been when Stan first regained consciousness, and he was examining the table again.

"Do you know what the worst part was about having to go to _Backupsmore_ for college?" He spat the name like a curse.

Stan looked down at his throbbing shoulder, which had a grimy-looking piece of rag shoved onto it-presumably that had stopped the bleeding. He hoped it wasn't covered in anything that would give him an infection, and almost laughed at himself for being concerned about that.

Ford didn't seem to expect an answer, but he found himself croaking, "No beach babes?"

Ford shot a withering glare at him as he finally decided on and picked up a new knife. "No _respect_. I had to work twice as hard to get the scientific community to take me seriously, since I went to the most _pathetic_ college in America. With a degree at West Coast Tech I could have finally had people seeing me as something besides a six-fingered freak with a big brain-"

"Didn't you get that anyway?"

Part of Stan's brain reminded him in a horrified tone that he was talking to a man who was holding a _knife_, and had proved that he was more than willing to use it, so you should shut up, you idiot.

But at the same time...this was Ford he was talking to. A Ford who was, yes, acting more than a little unhinged, and who was threatening and hurting him...but still Ford. Maybe. Somewhere in there. Maybe he could get him to listen to reason.

Or maybe Stan just was physically incapable of keeping his mouth shut sometimes.

Either way, he went on, "You got a phD in less than half the time it takes most people. You still got to study everything you wanted, and make big scientific breakthroughs and whatever. You _like_ working hard, Sixer. You like the challenge. I mean, unless you've changed a lot more than I thought."

Ford blinked, and something about his face looked oddly...irritated. Instead of unhinged or gleeful like it had been. He tilted his head, and his eyes did that...funny thing again.

Maybe it was just the weird lighting in here, but something about his eyes kept looking wrong to Stan. Like they weren't the right color, or something. It was hard to tell though, since the weird torches kept reflecting off his glasses unless he was right up in Stan's face, and even then he wasn't sure…

"...That doesn't make what I did right, though," Stan admitted softly, part of him wondering how the heck he was staying so calm. "I realize that. I shoulda just let you go, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you didn't-"

He was sure he'd been keeping an eye on his brother, looking for any tells on how he was going to react, but he still didn't see the upcoming fist until it drove into his stomach and forced him to jerk forward, struggling to get the air back into his lungs.

A six-fingered hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back to a real uncomfortable angle.

"You're sorry?" Ford asked in an icy tone. "You're _sorry_? Oh, I guess that makes it all better then, that you didn't _mean_ to hurt my future because all you cared about was having me around to hold your hand!" The familiar tickle of a knife blade touched his throat for a second, before Ford finally released him.

"...No," Stan wheezed finally, "It wasn't like that-"

He didn't get to finish; Ford had gone to some kind of wheel sticking out of the wall nearby, and turned it so that the chains on his wrists were lifted even higher, until the tips of his shoes were just barely able to touch the floor.

"I want you to understand something, Stanley. All of this is for every chance I missed because of you. Because I should have cut you out of my life years ago, and I didn't."

"...Yeah you did," Stan muttered bitterly-seconds before the knife slashed across his chest.

And he didn't stop with just the one cut.

* * *

_**The really frustrating thing was that the amount of damage Bill could do was limited to what old Fordsy's body was capable of; anything stronger, like shooting this wiseacre full of electricity without having to produce some kind of scientific mechanism for it, or rearranging all the orifices of his face, would give the game away. And he already thought Fez might have seen something off about him once or twice; he was definitely more suspicious-minded than his brother.**_

_**At the same time, though, humans had pretty creative ways of inflicting pain on each other using just their limbs and a weapon. Nothing to compare to his own genius, of course, but enough that he was **_**almost** _**impressed with them.**_

_**The best part was the pain he managed to create with just his words. He didn't even need to make most of it up, he just twisted around what he remembered from all the times Ford had whined **_**on** _**and **_**on **_**at him about what he'd missed out on because he didn't go to West Coast Tech, blah blah blah. It was breaking this clown down even more than his knife; incredible.**_

_**Once his victim lost consciousness again, Bill created a small drain just under his feet for the mess, and laughed to himself. Maybe he'd go for the bones next, see how well he could balance with one broken leg. Or should he try a few of the ribs, as long as he didn't make him unable to breathe too soon?**_

_**Decisions, decisions...**_

* * *

**Ugh, now I feel dirty from being in Bill's thoughts.**


	4. Lots of Thinking

**Kind of a filler chapter, sorry. And it has a reference to vomit, just to warn anyone uncomfortable with that, but it's not a very big one.**

* * *

Ford remembered in time to go back upstairs so he could hear when the gnomes arrived. And when they did, to his relief it was carrying several large bagfuls of unicorn hair (which looked slightly like it might have unicorn _blood_ in it here and there, but he couldn't bring himself to feel overly concerned right now). He wasted no time in producing their payment, which meant he was soon hearing whoops of praise and promises that if he needed anything else and he had anymore mushrooms lying around then he should definitely call them, before once again he was alone in the house.

Ignoring the way his tired head was starting to throb, Ford hurriedly used some of the hair to create a protective barrier around the house. Then he created another around the basement, in case his plan failed and Bill came into his world. Then he took all of it that was left, and went back to constructing his weapon.

It was unlikely that he would be able to kill Bill with this, especially not on his own turf, to use the colloquialism. But it would hopefully be enough to incapacitate him for at least a little while: his crossbow, armed with bolts that had unicorn hair strung through them, and themselves were made out of a few types of enchanted wood cobbled together. The whole ensemble was filled with numerous spells, charms and curses he'd discovered-everything he could remember from his journals, and a few extras from other books he hurriedly flipped through, and even a few his fevered brain might have made up on the spot, it was hard to tell at this point. He didn't know if it would work-if any of it would work. But it was all he had.

He designed something else, too-something it would have been really nice to have Fiddleford around to help with but of course he'd screwed _that_ up in addition to everything else he'd screwed up: a pocket remote that would reopen the portal once he'd gone through, at whatever his new location might be. It could probably only be used once, because the strain of using so much power from such a great distance would make it explode afterwards, but hopefully once would be all he needed.

Ford lost track of how long he spent working (something which tended to happen even on a normal day, let's be honest). He only stopped when his nose was almost burned on one of the wires he was holding, and with a defeated sigh he set his materials aside, then curled up right there on the floor of the basement. At least Bill couldn't possess him now, was his final thought as his eyes flickered shut. It wasn't much consolation.

* * *

Stan wasn't sure how long he'd been here. Things had kind of fallen into a black cycle of pain and the comparative blissfulness of unconsciousness, with occasional showers of denial that any of this was real.

Of course, by now he had a number of creative injuries that would argue otherwise every time he thought that last part, and a lot of his blood and even some vomit had gone down the drain at his feet-had that always been there? He couldn't remember...

Stan had been hurt before, many times. He had even been technically tortured before, and it was probably very sad that he could say that. However, it had never been like this. Never with this much obvious glee and hatred.

Never by his brother.

He'd pretty much given up trying to reason with Ford by now. Instead, he spat out angry defiance and sardonic backchat in a voice that was becoming more and more hoarse from all the screaming he was doing. He wasn't even sure why he was continuing to talk back anymore, since it just meant Ford would hurt him again, except that he was going to hurt him either way, so what did he have to lose?

And yet, something in him kept thinking on and off, _No. This isn't right. This isn't what Ford is like._

_Those aren't his eyes._

Of course, maybe he was just going mad too...

* * *

**Stan's mind is awfully stubborn, isn't it?**


	5. Ford, the knight in shining armor

When Ford's eyes finally shot open again, he realized that as best he could remember, he hadn't dreamed at all.

Maybe Bill had correctly surmised that it would torment him more to not know what was happening to his brother. If he was even still alive at this juncture.

He checked his watch; he had been asleep for around five hours. Not good for him physically, but it would have to do.

Rubbing at his eyes, which were still heavy and throbbing, he threw himself back into his work.

He didn't know how long he had been working when he finally finished the remote. Days? Weeks? Occasionally he'd remembered to sleep or make quick runs to the bathroom, but other than that he did nothing but work on the remote and figure out everything else he thought he would need for when he reopened the portal. The same kind of wild, frantic energy that had gotten him started on this whole project in the first place was all the fuel he needed now.

Soon enough the portal was filled with the white, glowing light again, and objects nearby had started levitating from the gravitational anomalies.

Ford slung the crossbow over his shoulder and marched intently across the safety line. It wasn't long before he was rising in the air, being sucked up into whatever lay beyond.

* * *

Quiet.

The next time Stan opened his eyes, it was to a quiet, empty dungeon, with only three of the torches still lit.

His body was feeling hot and cold and tingly all at the same time, and it was getting hard for his vision to focus.

He knew what that meant: blood loss and untreated wounds (well, sort of untreated; occasionally _he_ deigned to stop the bleeding with a strip of cloth or by...more brutal methods) had led to infection and fever. Bitterly he wondered if there was any way to speed it up, have it go ahead and kill him already before-

There were footsteps coming down the stairs into the dungeon. Very familiar footsteps, even if they were more subdued than they had been so far. Stan groaned softly, and let his chin droop to his chest as the door opened and _he_ came in.

"Just kill me already, wouldya?" he asked as _he_ came within hearing range.

Surprisingly, this actually made _him_ come to a halt.

Not giving _him_ a chance to open his mouth, Stan went on, "We both know that's how this is gonna end anyway. So just hurry up and put me out of your misery. 'Cuz I'm gonna be honest with you-" he finally lifted his head, squinting at _him_ in the dim flickering light, and tried to give a sardonic smile- "if I have to listen to one more of your dumb comic book villain monologues about how I ruined your life-" he let out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, knowing that would goad _him_ more than anything, he'd always hated feeling like he wasn't being taken seriously, but it came out as more of a broken sob- "I think I'm gonna puke."

He lowered his head again and closed his eyes, waiting. But he very nearly opened them again when he heard the way _he_ whispered his name, sounding different than he expected.

Sounding almost...heartbroken.

* * *

There had been a creature of some kind waiting when Ford entered the Nightmare Realm, a monstrous chimera that looked like a giant hand with a tooth-filled mouth in the middle of the palm-but he had shot six bolts into it and kept going without slowing down.

He was traveling through a vast, chaotic expanse covered in what looked like a giant asteroid belt, like something out of a science fiction film that he would have really liked to see under different circumstances. Ford had tried to navigate as quickly and quietly as possible through it all, but he'd had to shoot quite a few more denizens before he'd finally found the spot where Stan's dungeon was, and sneaked in.

Worryingly, there was no sign of Bill-that meant he could be anywhere.

But to his equal parts relief and horror, soon he managed to find his brother.

Stanley looked even worse than he'd imagined.

If the meat puppet Bill had created for himself looked like a marionette that wasn't being used, Stan looked like one that had had its strings cut and been thrown into a mud puddle.

As Ford came closer, he saw that what remained of his brother's jacket and shirt was _black_ with dried blood, coating him from his elbows all the way down his chest and stomach, here and there on his pant legs, and even a few drops splashed on his boots. The air around him smelled of blood, and vomit, and strangely of burned hair. Both his eyes were blackened and swollen, and the area around his nose and mouth was smeared with numerous fluids.

And then when he saw Ford was there, he started practically begging him to kill him, in a voice that had spent far too long screaming so now it was worn down to a gravelly whisper.

"...Stanley," Ford whispered again, hurriedly digging into his pockets, "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm not going to hurt you. I promise, I will explain everything later, but right now I have to get you out of here." He pulled out the size-changing crystal he'd taken from the forest, and then grabbed one of the nearby torches. When he found which side of the crystal created the blue light, he carefully shined it on each of Stan's chains until they'd expanded enough for his hands to slide through the manacles. Then he threw the torch aside just in time to catch his brother before he face-planted into the stone floor.

Instantly Stan tried to squirm away, even though he was so weak that he could barely move at this point. Ford only held onto him tighter with one arm, managing to fumble out the remote and pointing it at their feet. They had to get back before Bill-

"OH, STAN-LEY…."

The sound of feet came marching down the stairs.

With a muffled curse, Ford mashed his thumb down on the button that would open the portal into their location. The remote hummed thoughtfully, and the red light indicated that it was powering up.

Frantically Ford pressed it a few more times, despite the attempted voice of reason in the back of his head whispering _That's not going to help, you might damage it if you panic, you just need to be patient_; it was being drowned out by the voice of pure panic, which was shrieking _NO TIME NO TIME NO TIME-_

"Stanley," Bill called with Ford's voice again, his feet louder now, closer, "I thought of a new game we could play. I brought one of my 38-sided dice to help. It's called, 'What body part does Stan value the least?' I was thinking your eyes could be 19 and 20, and-"

Bill appeared in the doorway. At the same moment, the remote's button finally turned green, and a crackling white-and-blue light appeared on the antenna, spilling out onto the floor in front of them.

"_**WHAT?!"**_

Instantly Bill's voice sounded like his own again, and the evil triangle was surging free of the meat puppet, which collapsed lifelessly. Ford, heart skipping a beat, yanked Stan against him, and half-fell through the portal.

The last thing he saw before he was surrounded by white was Bill racing towards them, hand outstretched, and shrieking his name in fury.

"_**STANNNN-FORDDDD!"**_

* * *

**Well, at least Ford has Stan back. In body, at least. The rest of him-his trust, his love, etc-is gonna take a little more work.**


	6. The first cut is the deepest

**Warning: there is a needle in this chapter. For those of you who are squeamish about needles, I am too, so this was probably as uncomfortable for me to write as it is for you to read.**

**I also apologize for medical inaccuracy; I'm a writer, not a doctor.**

* * *

They reappeared sprawled on the floor of the basement; Ford sat up at once, smiling a little vindictively as the light from the portal died, with no sign of Bill coming through.

_Try and get into my world now, you monster._

Then he turned his attention back to Stanley-who was still lying flat on the ground, eyes closed, not moving a muscle.

With a rush of panic, Ford put his fingers against his throat-and had to make himself relax before he realized with relief that Stan was still alive, just insensible.

Ford lifted his twin's head and shoulders, pulling them to rest against his legs and considered his options.

He could take Stan to the hospital. Some would argue that was the best solution, since they had superior medical equipment. But it would be difficult to explain what had happened to Stanley without having to come up with some very creative lies, which was definitely not his specialty, and there was a worse consideration besides: if he couldn't use Stan as leverage, it was entirely possible that Bill would take revenge instead.

Ford could easily imagine him possessing a nurse and using her to put something lethal in an IV drip, or smothering him with a pillow, or taking a scalpel to his throat.

On the other hand, there were definitely problems with keeping him here too. Namely the fact that Stan thought Ford was the one who had been torturing him for all this time (how long had it been, anyway?) and that Ford was a doctor, yes, but not the medical kind. All he had was the (admittedly extensive) medical equipment and books that were in part courtesy of Fiddleford, since after that incident with the Gremloblin he'd decided it was best to be prepared for anything. And there was no one else he dared trust with his brother right now, so he couldn't even go find someone else to take care of him, even if leaving Stan alone wasn't completely out of the question.

...But at least Bill wouldn't be able to get to them here.

* * *

That decided, Ford finally got up, removing all his equipment, and tried as best he could to lift Stan.

He'd probably lost some weight during his time in the nightmare realm, since Ford doubted Bill had bothered to feed him, but he was still quite heavy. Ford struggled for a minute to figure out the best way to do this, before he managed finally to drape Stan's arm around his shoulders, while wrapping his own arm around Stan's waist, and half walk, half carry him towards the stairs.

The whole process of bringing him up took a lot longer than it does to describe it, especially since they had to stop and rest every three or so steps. In the back of his head, Ford was kicking himself for not installing an elevator all the way to the upper levels of the house, because he'd made the argument that having to walk a few flights of stairs would help him stay in shape better. Of course, he'd never predicted a situation like this happening, but at the moment that was not an acceptable excuse.

This whole experience felt...surreal, Ford realized, as he finally got his brother into the actual house, hoping he hadn't exacerbated any of his wounds by moving him around so much. Stan was the one who'd always taken care of him, never mind his being fifteen minutes older. The natural order of things was being undermined.

Ford managed somehow to get Stan into the downstairs bathroom, setting him on the toilet seat first and checking to make sure the medical equipment was still next to the sink, where he'd left it in preparation for this.

It was.

_Okay, baby steps…_

Gingerly he began trying to peel Stan out of his jacket.

To his surprise, it wouldn't come off.

It was like it had been...stuck to his skin, almost.

With growing nervousness Ford managed to peel back enough pieces of cloth to see that...there appeared to be so much clotted blood sticking to both his skin and his clothes that in a way it was. And he could soon make out why there had been the smell of burned hair, too: there were burn marks on his chest, at least a dozen. Of course, they were shaped like triangles.

For a few seconds Ford saw red. He clenched his hands around the edges of the jacket, inhaling and exhaling deeply through his nose, until he was finally calm enough to continue. And then he grabbed the scissors from the medical kit.

Meticulously Ford cut away the remains of Stan's jacket and shirt, except for the places where it was stuck enough that he had to just cut around it. As he did this he routinely checked on Stan, making sure he was still breathing and his heart was still beating. His head lolled back against the wall behind him, hair drooping in his eyes. Ford had to bite back hysterical laughter when he remembered Stan's angry complaint about how he had a mullet now. As if there weren't such a thing as a haircut available to him. Then again...it probably wasn't, at least not a professional one.

Ford bit his lip and then picked up the sponge, turning on the faucet in the tub until the water was warm. Carefully he soaked it, and then began running the sponge across his brother's body.

It worked well enough for him to at least get some of the remaining scraps of cloth worked free. Eventually he transferred him the rest of the way into the tub, after removing his other layers, and continued cleaning him until at last he could get a good look at his wounds.

Most of them were slash and stab marks, done with reckless abandon across his chest, shoulders and arms, with only a few on his back. There were also burn marks, including the one splayed on his shoulder-the one that was directly Ford's fault, in contrast with all the others which were only his fault by allowing Stan to be sent to the nightmare realm in the first place. None of Bill's torture had been done anywhere near the burn-like he was making it the centerpiece, almost. Several of the burns had been placed right over the deeper-looking cuts, like they were cauterizing them; even so, he could see that many had become infected, making it almost a miracle that Stan was still alive.

There were also bruises in abundance, all over him.

Stan, meanwhile, stayed unconscious, even as he was undressed and cleaned off. Maybe his body was just too exhausted to care about how it was being treated anymore.

Ford let out the water, and began drying him off, before grabbing disinfectant, antibiotics, stitching materials and bandages for the next part of the process.

Stan stirred a little when Ford used the syringeful of antibiotics on him, but there was also a bit of sedative in there, so he soon was still again.

By the time Ford was done with his patch-up job, Stan's upper body was almost entirely covered in stitches and bandages. It reminded him a little of a few times when they were kids, and Stan would wrap himself in toilet paper and pretend he was a mummy, threatening to put a curse on Ford if he didn't return a toy he'd borrowed and forgotten to give back, or just because they were playing a game.

It had always made Ford laugh before.

Seeing it now was a lot less funny.

Ford dug out an old pair of sweatpants and slid Stan into them; they were a little tight at the waist, but good enough for now. Then, finally, he got him up again and carried him to the spare room, laying him out on a mattress he'd dragged out of the attic. Once he was sure Stan was sleeping peacefully, Ford looked down at himself.

He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on when Stan first came here; they were sweaty, greasy, and splattered with blood and muck.

Even by Ford's standards, he was kind of disgusting right now. And it was dangerous to have this many germs close to his twin in his already fragile medical state. So, with great reluctance, he went to take a shower and change into clean clothes. And then he decided maybe it would be in his best interests to eat a little-not that he had much of an appetite, but he needed to keep up his strength.

He found some cans of soup in a cupboard, and managed to swallow down about half of one of them. He realized he'd need to make another deal with the gnomes to go get him more supplies. By then, though, he was feeling anxious about leaving his brother unattended again, so he hurried back to his room, bringing all the medicines and (as an afterthought) running back down to the basement and carrying up his crossbow. Just in case Bill figured out some way of getting in the house and coming after them. He sat down, legs crossed, with the medicines and crossbow on one side and a couple of water bottles on the other. And eventually, exhaustion overtook him enough that he dozed off where he sat.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of whimpering.

It took Ford a stupid amount of time to open his eyes, and remember what was going on.

He registered, after a moment, that Stan was awake-and that he was all the way at the door, grabbing the doorknob and struggling to pull himself to his feet, even though he was clearly so weak that it wasn't going too well. And Ford also saw, to his horror, that some of his bandages were bright red and that blood was dripping down his chest.

"Stanley, stop!" he cried, jumping to his feet-and nearly falling back over because they had fallen asleep from being stuck in one position for so long.

Stanley's terror only increased; he scrabbled wildly at the doorknob, managing to get one leg under himself and trying to stand from there.

Ignoring the pins and needles filling his feet, Ford stumbled towards him, and placed one hand flat against the door. At once Stan shrank away, scrambling back on hands and feet even though he should have been too weak to move.

"Stanley, you need to stop! You're going to rip open all your stitches, _please_!"

Stan didn't seem to hear him; he'd pressed himself up against the wall, eyes darting around in clear search of some kind of weapon. At the same time as Ford, his head suddenly turned towards the crossbow.

He tried to lunge for it, but Ford was in marginally better physical shape at the moment, so he got there first. And then he was back to blocking the door, clutching the crossbow in one hand.

As he did, all of Stan's determination seemed to crumble at once. His eyes welled up, and he curled himself into a ball, whispering softly, "No more...please…"

Ford felt his heart break. Especially when he realized what he would have to do next.

Carefully he took out the key to the room, and locked the door, returning it to his coat pocket afterwards. Then he went back to the pile of medical supplies and pulled out a fresh syringe and a bottle of sedative, using the latter to fill the former to the correct amount.

He heard Stan's whimpering increase, but straightened up and slowly approached.

"Listen to me, Stanley," he said softly, trying to keep his voice as nonthreatening as possible even if what he was doing was countermanding the attempt. "I know-I can guess what you're thinking right now. But I promise, i-it wasn't me who hurt you. I would _never_ have done all this to you." He gestured to the rapid spread of crimson crossing Stan's chest. "It was someone who I hoped you would never have to meet, who was very good at impersonating me. He did it because it would be easier to break you that way-and to torment me at the same time."

Stan didn't seem to hear him at all; his eyes were fixed on the end of the needle in Ford's hand.

Ford slowly knelt until he was on his level, setting down the syringe next to him. "I know you're hurt and afraid, and in a fragile mental state right now. And this is probably not going to help at all. But I-I don't know what else to do." He swallowed. "Please, believe me when I tell you that I only want to help you right now."

Stan didn't answer. His expression showed nothing but fear and mistrust, and his breath hitched in a small, terrified sob.

"I'm sorry," Ford whispered.

With that, he rapidly pinned Stan against the wall, managing to get part of his arm in place so he could stick the syringe into it.

Stan struggled, trying to get away from Ford, but he simply didn't have the strength to do so. He let out a small whine when the needle pierced his skin, and squirmed in his grasp as Ford tried to push down on the plunger without giving him room to escape.

"Ssh, ssh, I know, Stanley, I know."

Once he'd injected all the sedative he pulled out the needle, shoving it away across the floor. Then he pressed his thumb over the fresh wound, ignoring how unsanitary that was for the time being in lieu of stopping Stan from losing more blood that he really couldn't afford to lose right now.

"Just close your eyes, please," he said, looking at him pleadingly, and hating the fact that Stan was giving him a similar stare. "You're gonna go to sleep soon, so I can fix up everything again. Don't try to fight it, just close your eyes."

He hoped he didn't sound as crazy as he felt like he did.

It took a lot longer than it did in the movies, but after a few agonizing minutes Stan's struggling began to subside, and his eyelids drooped.

"That's it, you're gonna go to sleep now," Ford said, keeping his tone low and soothing. "That's it, just relax…"

Finally, Stan's chin drooped against his chest, and his eyes slid shut.

Ford released him, and grabbed what he needed to repair all the damage that had been done. Despite how he tried to focus, though, he kept having to wipe his eyes under his glasses. And there may or may not have been some muffled sobs under his breath while he worked.

* * *

**...If it makes you feel any better, Ford, I don't think there's any good options for how to handle this situation available to you.**


	7. Good intentions, bad impression

**Look at me, adding another chapter because my homework is boring!**

* * *

Ford stared down at his brother, hands folded under his chin, contemplating his next move.

Obviously something had to be done to keep Stanley from trying to escape again, as sickening an idea as it was to keep his own brother a prisoner.

He could keep Stan sedated until his wounds were healed. Except that he'd probably need an IV drip or something to keep him supplied with nutrients, and Ford didn't have that. And he didn't know how much sedative he even had available, he might need some for later.

He could see that he needed to use a different option. Something even worse.

Last year, while he and Fiddleford were doing some research in the woods, they came across a gravely injured manotaur. He'd dismissed their offer of help, saying that he could "walk it off, like a MAN" even though at that point he could barely even limp, but they hadn't felt right leaving him in his condition, so when he passed out from blood loss right in front of them they took him back home.

It was doubtful that he would willingly stay put while they nursed him back to health, so Ford had gone to a nearby mental hospital and...um, 'acquired' a set of bed restraints, which they then cast several spells on to keep the manotaur from breaking them. He had been unappreciative, of course, but he did get better thanks to their care.

Afterwards, Fiddleford had said they should keep them, "in case Emma-May comes to visit." Ford had decided he was happier not really understanding what that meant, but somehow he'd never gotten around to returning them to the institution.

Now, after digging them out of the back of his closet, he laid Stan out on his bed, and then with a heavy heart set about restraining him to it.

First he attached each of the restraints to a bedpost. Then he buckled them around Stan's forearms, avoiding the bandaged areas around his wrists where he'd been chained and hoping that would be enough to keep him there; even before his time on the streets Stan had always been a bit of an escape artist. And finally he secured his ankles, before getting a chair and sitting down next to the bed.

* * *

A few hours later, Stan woke up. As soon as he realized that he was tethered down, he began struggling like mad, the grogginess in his eyes replacing itself with terror.

"Stanley, don't, please." Without thinking, Ford reached out a hand towards him. Immediately he shrank back with a high, frightened noise that didn't even sound human anymore.

He lowered his hand at once, but Stan was still bracing himself like he was waiting to be struck, limbs going limp in their bonds.

Ford had read a paper once, back in college, about a man named Seligman who did experiments on dogs to see what lengths they would go to avoid electric shocks. Some of them, if they were given shocks no matter what they did, would eventually give up trying altogether. They just lay down and accepted the pain, conditioned into what Seligman referred to as learned helplessness.

That was Stan looked like, now that he'd finally stopped struggling. Like a beaten dog who was just accepting whatever Ford wanted to do to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I-I'm just worried that if you move around too much right now you're going to split your stitches. You...have quite a lot of them. And I didn't want to keep you sedated all the time either."

Stan didn't look at him.

"It's not forever, though," Ford promised. "As soon as you're strong enough, and your wounds have healed, you can leave. You-" he closed his eyes- "you never have to see me again. All right?"

No answer; he hadn't really been expecting one.

"For now, though, you must rest and let me take care of you." Carefully he checked his brother over, making sure none of his hard work had been damaged again. Then he decided it was time to give him more antibiotics for the infection.

Stan's eyes widened in fear when Ford brought out the needle.

"I-It's okay, it's just medicine. See?" He held up the bottle so Stan could read the label. "You have a bit of a fever and I'm afraid to speculate what else from being left untreated for so long. Not that I know how long it's been, actually." Carefully he filled the syringe, and injected some into Stan's arm. It disturbed him even more when his brother made no attempt to get away, just meekly accepting it.

When he was done administering the medicine, Ford lifted Stan enough that he could get the covers out from under him, making sure that his twin could see his hands as much as possible and understand what was happening. Then he shook the blanket out a couple of times, before tucking it over Stan.

Stan stared at it in silent bewilderment.

"That okay?" Ford asked. "I know it's not the most comfortable position for you to be in, but it's the best I can do for now."

No answer except for a few blinks.

Ford sighed sadly.

* * *

The rules had changed.

_He'd_ stopped hurting him, now, or at least not like he had before. There were no knives, no threats, no choking or burning or cutting or stabbing. Just injecting him with something to make him fall asleep, and then tying him down. At least he was being allowed to lie down now; that was a nice change.

And _his_ voice had become...more like Stan remembered. Maybe a bit gentler, more...sad sounding. It didn't threaten or rant anymore, didn't take all his mistakes and hurl them back in his face or mock his attempts to apologize for what he'd done wrong or try to force him to admit that he was worthless.

Maybe his second theory had been right after all: maybe _he_ had just gone crazy, and now his other personality, the 'good' one, was reasserting itself.

And maybe, just maybe, if he stayed very still and quiet and didn't do anything to upset _him_, the bad one wouldn't come back.

* * *

**I haven't actually thought about what Fiddleford and his wife's sexual preferences are. And I'll be honest, I really REALLY don't wanna know. But the line was so funny I couldn't resist throwing it in, and in this story Fiddleford's the kind of guy who would at least joke about that.**

**Sorry, my mind goes into dark places sometimes.**

**(*Gasp of shock* The writer of a torture fic has a mind that goes into dark places sometimes?! Breaking news, everybody!)**


	8. Nightmares and Words

**Warning: there are flashbacks to torture here.**

* * *

"His name is Bill Cipher," Ford said, holding up a drawing of the evil triangle. "I know he might not look that threatening, but don't be fooled. He...he told me that he was a muse who visited our dimension once every hundred years, or when an especially brilliant mind was born, to inspire them and help them achieve greatness."

He couldn't help wincing a little as he said it; out loud, it sounded ridiculously far-fetched. Like something their mother would say to one of her clients, making bright promises for their future.

"He was lying," he went on. "He convinced me to create the portal-you went through it, remember?-and told me it would help with my research, but it was really because he wanted to create a gateway for himself and a host of other...beings who would come through and destroy the world."

Stan just stared up at the ceiling, expression blank-same as usual. It made Ford wonder if he even heard him at all.

Nevertheless, Ford went on talking as he looked after his brother throughout the day, as he checked his bandages and finally tried to get some food in him-some more canned soup and a little water; Stan managed a few swallows of each-and gave him medicine.

He told Stan everything: about how Bill had manipulated him, how he had been the one to torture Stan, how you could tell by looking at someone's eyes if Bill was possessing them.

He talked until his voice was hoarse, and then went on talking.

It was all he could think to do.

* * *

"_I want you to admit it," _he _said. "Say that you're completely worthless. We both know it's true, but I want you to say it."_

_Stan glowered at _him_, ignoring the way his fresh wounds stung. "What, you want it in writing or something?"_

His _eyes-again, Stan noticed that something seemed wrong with his eyes-brightened. "Not a bad idea, Fez! Probably your first good one in years, am I right?" He began digging through his pockets. "I'm sure I have some paper here somewhere, I'm always carrying around stuff like that…"_

_Fez? What was he talking about? The only fez that he could remember any connection towards was Pa's Order of the Holy Mackerel fez, and that was probably all the way back in Glass Shard._

_He saw that _he _was pulling out a notepad and a pen, and flipping to a clean page. A sudden surge of anger filled him, and he lifted his head enough to spit in his br-in _his _face._

_There was blood in the mix, probably from biting his tongue or his lips. Hopefully that's what it was from, anyway._

He _froze for a few seconds, with the substance dripping down his glasses and onto his cheek. _His _eyes soon glittered with rage...and once again Stan struggled to figure out what exactly was wrong with them. Then he realized: the pupils...they looked kinda funny, all slitted like a cat's. Unless he had started hallucinating from blood loss-_

He _was saying slowly, "I just thought of a new game, Stanley."_

He _reached into his pocket again, but this time it was to produce a long chain with a triangle-shaped pendant on the end. It looked like it should have been too large for _his _pocket, but somehow he drew it out without a problem._

He _pulled apart the remains of Stan's T-shirt, so his chest was exposed, before going to one of the torches and dipping the triangle into the center of the flame. Stan felt his heart sink as he realized what was coming._

"_Of the two of us, you were the one who was really excited about getting chest hair," _he _said, watching the pendant thoughtfully. "You thought of it as a sign that you were getting close to manhood, and that girls would start noticing you more." _He _made a contemptuous sound. "I just thought it was gross."_

_When _he _turned around, the pendant was glowing red hot. "And honestly, I still think having that much hair is gross. So how about we get rid of some of it now?"_

Stan's eyes snapped open, and it took him a moment to remember that it was okay-he wasn't in that place anymore, _he_ wouldn't hurt him again. At least, _he_ said he wouldn't.

Right now, the good one was sitting in the chair next to his bed-more like sprawling in it, head drooping on his own shoulder and chest rising up and down in tiny breaths of air, looking so much like himself that it hurt.

Stan's lips parted for a moment, shaped the beginning of _his_ name-but he didn't dare disturb him, in case that woke up the bad side, so he just let his eyes flicker shut again.

* * *

It was several days before Stan's fever finally broke.

During that time, Ford reestablished contact with the gnomes and persuaded them to bring more food, more blankets, some extra medicine just in case. And he learned that it had been nearly two weeks since Stan had first arrived at his house; it felt like a lot longer.

He continued looking after Stan as best he could, only untying him to eat or visit the bathroom, and keeping an eagle eye on his wounds.

And as much as he could, Ford talked.

He told Stan about other stuff besides Bill-about college, and how at least one good thing had come out of going to Backupsmore: he'd made a friend out of Fiddleford McGucket-and how he'd probably ruined that forever by refusing to listen to his worries about the portal.

He told him about some of his discoveries about Gravity Falls, from the gnomes to the highly unusual multi-bear.

He even talked about how he'd missed Stan after he got kicked out, and that it had just been easier to stay mad at him than try to find out where he was. He apologized for not doing that sooner, and not just because if he had maybe they wouldn't be in this mess now.

And all the time he talked, Stan stared up at the ceiling, not saying a word or giving any indication if he believed him.

He also started doing small gestures; like gently squeezing Stan's arm for a second before putting the needle into it, or putting a hand to his forehead and smoothing back his bangs while he talked to him, or even curling his fingers and running them down his cheek. Soft, affectionate gestures, in the (probably futile) hope that perhaps he could recondition Stan to associate his touch with someone who wouldn't hurt him. Or help him understand that he was a completely different person from the one in the nightmare world, because actions spoke louder than words, right?

There were moments when Ford felt tempted to try other methods of helping Stan's mind-like seeing if Fiddleford had possibly left behind the blueprints for his memory gun. Or even asking the gnomes to track him down and see if he could build another one-

No, that was a bad road to walk down. He forced himself to stop thinking about it, because otherwise he would rationalize it enough that he would actually do it, and that led to possibilities that it frightened him to consider.

* * *

Stan kept dreaming about his time in that place-about hurting, and being told over and over that this was punishment for ruining _his_ life and that _he_ would have been better off without him. But there were other, more confusing dreams, about there being two of _him_. One who was getting him free from his chains and holding him, and one who was appearing in the doorway, ready to hurt him again. And...something about a flash of yellow?

It was all hazy and confusing, and felt like the nightmares...but unlike them, it wasn't real, right?

* * *

**Despite what people thought of him growing up, Stan's no idiot.**


	9. A potentially fatal accident

It was almost four weeks exactly since Stan had come to Gravity Falls. And somehow, even though he was getting more sleep than he had been before he put up the barrier that would protect them from Bill, Ford felt way more tired than he had when he spent all his time frantically forcing himself to stay awake. It might have been interesting to figure out how that was possible if he wasn't so tired and worried and guilty and numerous other adjectives.

Regardless, that afternoon Ford was in the kitchen, throwing together a meal. Stan had got some of his strength back and his infection seemed to be completely gone, so he'd decided to celebrate by making some soup with bacon bits crumbled into it. He remembered the first time Stan had tasted bacon, purchased from a vendor on the boardwalk: his eyes had lit up with delight, and he'd declared that it was like heaven in his mouth. After that, he'd eaten it every chance he got (which wasn't often, since their mother had scoldingly reminded them that bacon was not kosher; Stan, of course, was less than concerned by this).

Ford tasted the soup, decided it needed a little more salt, and shook some into the pot. After giving it a few more stirs, he tried it again, and gave a satisfied nod. Then he ladeled some into a bowl, grabbed a clean spoon, and carried it back to his room.

"Lunchtime," he announced as he came in. "I put bacon bits in. I remembered those are your favorite."

No reply, or any kind of acknowledgement.

Ford tried not to let his face fall; he should have known better than to get his hopes up. "It's not Mom's cooking, but I'm hoping you'll like it anyway."

He set the bowl on the floor by his chair, and sat down, freeing Stan's arms. "Let's sit you up so you can eat, okay?"

Stan allowed himself to be raised up. Ford set the bowl in his lap, and scooped up a spoonful, blowing to cool it.

"Careful, it's still pretty hot."

To his relief, since it was occasionally a struggle getting his brother to eat, Stan's mouth opened without protest today, allowing him to squirm the spoon in.

* * *

It should have been demeaning to Stan, being fed like a baby; it broke Ford's heart that apparently it wasn't, or that he just couldn't work up the energy to care.

For a few minutes he went on feeding Stan, until he stopped opening his mouth to eat. The bowl wasn't even halfway empty.

"Stanley, please, you're not eating enough. You'll get better faster if you have more." Ford held up the spoon coaxingly...but then he noticed that for the first time in a while, Stan's gaze appeared to be focused on something. Specifically, he was staring with melancholy eyes at his bound feet.

Ford let the spoon fall back into the bowl, and pursed his lips for a second. Then he came to a decision.

"Hey." Lightly he tapped his twin's arm. "You know, your wounds are a lot better-all the ones I was worried about you ripping open again. I don't think you need these restraints anymore. What do you say we take them off?"

Even if he didn't get a response, he fully intended to do it anyway. But he was absolutely stunned when, after a second, Stan _gave_ a response: his chin dipped in a tiny nod.

Ford was so excited that he nearly knocked the bowl over, and had to fumble to catch it before it spilled all over his pants. He set it back on the floor, and scooted to the end of the bed.

"All right! All right, Stan! No more restraints!" He made quick work of them, tossing them over the end of the bed like confetti at a party, then turned back to Stan with a wide smile. "Do you know what this means? This is great! You're feeling well enough that you don't need those anymore!"

At least he hoped not. Because to be honest, he wasn't sure he could handle having to put Stan back into them again.

Ford leaned down and picked up the bowl, hoping maybe now he could get him to eat some more. "You've come so far. It sounds a little cheesy, but I'm proud of you, Stanley."

Then he received his second surprise of the day: Stanley looked directly at him. It was a stare that was innocent and wide-eyed, and belonged to someone much younger.

Ford smiled at him, and leaned forward to put a hand on his shoulder.

Forgetting about the bowl that was still in his other hand.

Which tipped.

And spilled the soup all over Stan's legs.

* * *

Granted, they were still covered by the sweatpants he was wearing, but he'd been sitting up out of the blanket, and the soup was still relatively hot, and even if it wasn't exactly scalding to the touch he'd had such traumatic experiences with being burned recently-

Stan shrieked, jerking away and breath coming in high, terrified gasps.

"No no no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!" Ford cried, unable to avoid noticing the slight irony in his words as he reached for Stan's legs, intending to assess the damage.

But Stanley was having none of it. As soon as Ford touched him again, he turned from a frightened dog into a snarling wolf. He shoved him back, knocking him out of his chair, before-for the first time in weeks-standing up (on very shaky but still stubborn) legs...and then grabbing up the crossbow.

* * *

It was like something in Stan's brain had snapped.

He'd done what _he_ wanted: he was still, and quiet, and didn't fight him, and _he_ had still hurt him again!

And something in him decided, right then and there, that he was _done_. No more pain, no more games, this was _it_.

He'd never fired a crossbow before, but it wasn't that hard to figure out. You shot the pointy end into the other person by pulling a trigger.

So now he turned the pointy end right at _his_ heart.

* * *

"Stanley! Stanley, don't-" Ford raised his hands slowly, suddenly knowing what true terror was like. "I'm sorry-please, don't-"

His brother didn't seem to hear him; he was glaring down the crossbow, eyes burning with rage, his own hands incredibly steady as they pointed the weapon at Ford's chest.

"Stanley," Ford whispered, voice shaking hard. "I know I messed up. What happened to you is-is unforgivable. I don't blame you one bit for wanting to pull that trigger. But-but-" he struggled for the right words that could possibly stop him. Because he might not blame him for wanting to kill him, after everything he'd been through...but that didn't mean he wanted to die, not like this.

"Stanley, please, I am begging you…"

It didn't mean he wasn't crying from fear as he stared down the other end of the bow at his brother. It didn't mean he wanted Stan to potentially snap out of it and realize that he'd murdered his own twin-if there was any part of him left who that would still matter to.

* * *

_He_ was speaking, rapid frantic words, but it all sounded a little like it would underwater. Echoey and impossible to hear through the rage burning through his thoughts, making Stan want to _destroy_ his tormentor.

He looked down the bow, wanting to get a good aim-

And stared right into a pair of wide, terrified brown eyes.

_Ford's eyes._

* * *

**...I wrestled with myself trying to decide how best to end this chapter.**

**Be grateful I decided not to go with a more horrifically ambiguous ending.**


	10. Catharsis

For a second the two of them were frozen in place.

Then the crossbow dropped from Stan's hands, landing with a loud clatter on the floor (fortunately not in such a way that it would go off, like it would in the movies); at the same time Stan's legs, apparently unable to bear his weight any longer, gave out, and he collapsed to his knees.

Before Ford could react, his brother had pulled himself forward and caught his (Ford's) head in both hands, tilting it back and pulling his eyelid all the way open with his thumb.

Ford quickly realized what he was doing, and so he didn't struggle, going quite still and letting Stan get a good, long look.

His twin checked the other eye too, staring at them in something between fierce concentration and abject bewilderment. Then, with just as much abruptness as before, he released Ford and scooted back, biting down on his hand and staring at him in horror.

"It's okay, Stanley," Ford said, even though it really shouldn't have been. "It's all right-"

"Two of you."

And there was Ford's fourth surprise of the day.

For a moment he wasn't even sure he'd really heard Stan speak, since his voice was so weak and hoarse from not being used in so long. But once he realized that his brother truly had spoken, and what he'd said, he was about to try again to apologize, until Stan went on talking, the words all coming out in a harsh, gravelly babble.

"There-there _were_ two of you, weren't there? You're _not_ in the same body or split personalities or nothin', you saved me from the other one, you're the-the real Ford-" his voice cut off with a choking noise- "and I just almost-" His eyes darted to the crossbow, and with another sob he covered his face with his hands, hunching over on himself and shaking.

* * *

Instantly Ford forgot about the terror from his near-death experience; his twin was upset and hurt, and needed him. He crawled over to his brother, letting his hands hover for a moment in indecision before setting them on top of Stan's.

"Stanley, will you look at me, please?"

Gently he pushed them down until he could see Stan's eyes-now bloodshot and glassy.

"Believe me, it's all right. I don't blame you for it."

"...It wasn't you, was it? You didn't hurt me."

"No, never. It was-"

"B-Bill Cipher?"

So Stan _had_ been listening to him, all this time. "Yes, that's right! He knew all my thoughts and memories, so he knew all the best ways to hurt you. I'm so sorry, Stan." He couldn't say he was sorry enough.

Stan stared into his eyes again, searching, probably trying to see if there was any grain of untruth in his words. And then just like that he slumped forward, basically collapsing against Ford until the top of his head was nestled under his chin.

"I never meant to break it," he whispered, letting the words all come out in a rush again. "I thought I fixed it, but I shoulda told you what happened, or never even gone near the table-"

As soon as he realized what he was talking about, Ford wasted no time in wrapping his arms around Stan's shoulders, and whispering back, "Don't worry about it, Stanley. It doesn't matter anymore."

* * *

It wasn't long before both of them were shaking, and rocking back and forth. Ford could feel dampness spreading across his chest, but he didn't care-he was probably leaving a match in his twin's hair.

They knelt for ages, the only sounds between them loud sniffling and gentle murmuring.

Eventually, though, Stan murmured, "Do I haveta leave?"

"What?"

Despite how his voice was muffled into Ford's shirt, Ford could hear him perfectly. "You said...when I got better, I could leave. But...do I have to?"

Ford pushed Stan back a tiny bit, enough to see his face. Stan's face was worn and exhausted and unshaven, but it was also sincere.

"...If you want to stay…" Ford managed a small smile, and rubbed his face on his own shoulder, "you absolutely can." He didn't even register that he should have said "you may" until after he said it, and decided that at the moment that didn't matter either.

And for the first time in years Stan smiled back at him. Before he snorted. "Geez, I sound like I got Stockholm Syndrome or somethin', askin' the guy who tied me to a bed for two weeks if I can stay with him."

Ford blinked-and then he burst into laughter.

Before long Stan was laughing too, voice still sounding terrible but at least it was _happy_, and the fact that he was capable of making an inappropriate joke about their situation was enough to give Ford hope that things could get better for them, that maybe they could bounce back from this somehow. They leaned against the side of the bed, not bothering to let go of each other, and spent a full minute just cracking up. And neither of them cared if their laughter had a slightly hysterical edge to it; it was warm and real and refreshing and the first thing that felt completely right between them.

* * *

**Yay, an ending where everybody laughs!**

**Even though among other things, they're both gonna need a LOT of therapy-assuming, of course, that they'll be able to find a therapist who won't look at them the way that one doctor looks at Sam and Dean in the episode of ****_Supernatural_**** where they check into the mental hospital.**

**A big thank you to Keleficent for letting me write this, and another to all my loyal fans who followed this story to the end; I hope it didn't disappoint.**


End file.
